Some days I don’t want to read.
Some days I don’t want to write.
Some days I want to go to the movies and eat popcorn and let someone else inspire.
Some days I don’t want to care.
Some days I don’t want to hope.
Some days I want to leave my sunglasses on and let someone else see the depths of others.
But other days I do read and write and care and hope.
And on those days I tend to the weeds growing through the foundation of my soul.
On those days as I soak in the sun, I plant and water and nourish and share the harvest of kindness, hope and love.
Because I don’t want to forget the other days on some days.
I care too much to let the some-day weeds overtake my other-days garden.
So on some days I walk slowly through the other-days beauty and try to remember the passion and power and joy of the other days.
And then I go to sleep praying that I’ll not forget to rest in the grace of the well-tended garden of the other days.
What questions and expectations are in your mind as you enter the theater to watch a movie? Are you asking if you’ll like the movie? Do you expect action or romance? Do you ever wonder what gift the movie has to offer you?
I get a lot out of movies and I love to talk about them with others. And when I say I get a lot out of them, I’m not messing around. I declared that Frozen literally changed my life and I’m not even being sarcastic. (Read about that here.)
Despite my self-declared distinction as a “writer,” I prefer the movie over the book every time. It might have something to do with the fact that I think in shapes and vague images and have a difficult time imagining elaborate descriptions, so I skip to dialogue. The “Abstract Thought” room as depicted in Inside Out is a perfect example of what happens in my head.
But I love the movies. I don’t have to focus hard on imagining, so I can just think and feel. And that’s where the magic happens for me.
Open Curiosity
Let’s look back to Les Miserables which came out in December of 2012. I recorded my observations about why I got so much out of the movie at that time, but the concept of open curiosity applies to every movie…every life.
Considering the many criticisms I heard regarding the quality of singing and singers chosen for the Les Mis, I was surprised the noticable lack of musical precision did not bother me as it often does. Instead, I was lost in the moment, inspired with every note. This is why:
Curiosity.
Rather than participating as a critic looking for certain elements, I came to the theater wondering what the experience would be like. Curiosity is an interest that doesn’t expect a certain answer. There’s no subtle demand to wondering…no agenda. Just the question.
Openness.
In my curiosity I didn’t guard my emotions like I often do when I don’t know what to expect. Instead, I gave myself permission to trust the filmmakers to draw me deep into a story and experience that took me to the depths of despair and up to the power of grace and love and redemption.
I realize that other directors may have set a higher standard of musical excellence. Other actors may have interpreted the characters differently. Other cinematographers may have chosen different shots or angles or lenses… But in the middle of the film, I wasn’t thinking about what they should have done to give me a different experience. I was experiencing. I made a mental decision after the first imperfect note to trust the artistic choices of the filmmakers and enter into the experience they were offering.
In the end, I was overcome by hope and desire. I sensed God’s presence with me – His love for the world – the great need for His light – a desire to love another and “see the face of God”.
Criticism Is The Safe Path
Why is it so tempting to view to view our life, others’ lives and God’s interaction in our life with a critic’s eye? I wonder if it’s partly because we are afraid of the unknown. We want the security of knowing everything will work out for the best, so we try to figure out how to make life work out for our idea of best. Rather than being curious, we are critical.
I can’t believe he said that! What was she thinking?
Viewing life as a critic allows us to pull out of the experience (where it is quite dangerous since who KNOWS what might happen) and close off our emotional responsiveness. From this seat in the house, we do not have to feel vulnerable or sad because we can be angry that someone did something differently than we’d hoped. Maybe it was a friend. Maybe it was ourselves. Maybe it was God. But there must be someone to blame. Rather than being open, we are closed and cynical.
In The End
Granted, I knew the plot of the Les Miserables story. I knew it was going to be miserable. I knew the misery would be redeemed in some way. So perhaps the fact that I knew the end of the story made it easier for me to remain open in the middle of despair.
I don’t know how every story will end here and now. People will get hurt. Some will feel tortured. I will die, though I don’t know how or when. There is ugliness, despair, misery. It’s awfully hard to feel hopeful when I don’t know what might happen in the end.
Or don’t I?
The thing is, if I consider what the Bible says and believe there is a bigger story…
if the end is one where justice and love rule side by side…
if there is a greater goal than happiness here and now…
if the whole world is in the pains of childbirth as the New Creation is born…
If my story is not the end…
If my story contributes to the greater Story…
Revelation 21:4-5 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”
If this is the end, can I trust God in the middle of the ups and downs of my story?
Open curiosity or closed cynicism?
What do you want to ask of the movies? What do you want to ask of life?
My daughter has been sad a lot lately. She is entering that delicate tension between child and teen, running toward independence while simultaneously mourning the loss of naiveté. I rejoice with her and hurt for her. This is, what seems to be, the second in a series of transitions into what we eventually come to know as “real life.”
I don’t blame her for having a difficult time with it all. Everyone was in awe with her when she was little. Two tiny pigtails atop her head and words like they came from an adult, she had everything a two year old needed to get all kinds of ooo’s and ah’s and wow’s. It’s hard when a little girl’s years catch up with her cuteness. Precious as she is now, she also has a lot more responsibility. It will never be the same. I totally get it.
I know she’s sad because she gets angry. The kids love each other so intensely that they drive each other crazy with the expectation to be honored and loved and considered. It’s hard for kids to do all that for each other. It’s hard for any of us to do that for each other, regardless of how much we want it for ourselves. So several times a day they are offended and angry – especially after 4:00 in the afternoon. And in those times it is hard for them to do anything but scrutinize my favor.
You NEVER make Grant…You ALWAYS let Grant…He got more…Oh of COURSE he gets that!
I stopped rationalizing with her in these moments a long time ago. It doesn’t matter if she’s right or wrong, it matters that she isn’t feeling loved. We have no intention of changing her consequence or our decisions; but when this happens, the girl needs help.
One night a couple of weeks ago I realized that my little gal needed some extra sweet love – the kind that reaches the sadness under her anger. Right after an angrily offended outburst I followed her to her bed…
Hey babe. Look at me. Right here – look at me.
Her eyes wandered over for a brief second and met my adoring whole-face, gentle smile.
I love you, Amelia.
She immediately turned her head and hid the smile she couldn’t keep off of her own face. I didn’t joke this time. No arguing. No giving in. I just told her I loved her and I said it with my entire being. And I’ve been doing it periodically ever since. Then last night it happened again.
“How do you do that?”
Do what, honey?
“Make people smile.”
I don’t know. I guess it’s just my new superpower.
…a superpower we all have when we put on our super-deep goggles to see past surface-anger and find deep-pain. There’s no need to be afraid – no need to rationalize it away. Just meet it with deep-love.
Sometimes it’s not the end of the world, after all.
Perhaps you remember Belle from the Birthday Cake post (here)? She is our bull-in-a-china-closet, adorable and adored Pyredoodle.
One night a few days ago she pushed her way under our back yard fence and started running around the neighborhood. It’s happened repeatedly, despite our best blockades. We have learned that chasing her is counter-productive. She sees us or hears us call, gives us a taunting glance then takes off for a new hiding spot. So this night we left the front door open and waited, busying ourselves with work we could do near the entryway.
It wasn’t 5 minutes after she almost came inside and took off again when we heard her get hit by a car.
BAM! YELP!
Yelp, yelp, yelp!!!!!!
Aaron and I ran outside to see her take off behind our neighbor’s house and into the dark river-wood.
The poor driver never saw her coming. He felt horrible. I wish we could get ahold of him and let him know the rest of the story.
It was clear that we wouldn’t find her in the night woods so we headed home and lay wet-wide-eyed in bed. Aaron was sure she ran off to die. He thought through all of the should-have’s then fell asleep. Through a steady stream of sobs and tears, I thought through all of the could-be’s and eventually had a restless nap before morning.
What if a fox finds her? The kids will be devastated when I tell them tomorrow morning. I haven’t introduced her to my niece who is longing to meet her. What if it were one of our kids? What if it were a friend’s child? Would I ever recover? I’m sure I would not…
The big black hole of catastrophising sucked me in and swirled me around. I subconsciously gave into it as a sort of punishment for letting something bad happen to my family. I needed to feel bad.
I told the kids what happened when they woke up. One child ran off in great sobs, the other sat on my lap with quiet tears, hoping she would come home. But after the initial moments of sadness, they became energized with hope that Belle would return home if they just
…put out a trail of bread
…call her name
…take the flashlights into the backyard and look outside the gate.
They spent about an hour coming up with ways to lure her home.
I kept crying when they weren’t looking.
Poor, naïve children. They don’t realize how horrid this situation could be.
They stuffed a bag with “dog snacks” for me to carry with me on my journey into the woods to search for Belle. I took them to school, then headed out on what I was sure would be a long, sad journey. I got as far as the back gate when Belle barked at me from the other side of the fence – at her escape spot. I’m convinced she would have run away again if I didn’t have the kids’ snack pack. Miraculously, she suffered only a broken leg and a couple of flesh wounds. She asked me to carry her (yes, she asked) so I heaved her up and forward a few feet at a time until we made it to the house and eventually to her sweet veterinarian, my friend Amanda.
You can imagine our relief.
Well, their relief. For the next few days I remained on edge. Fragile. Anxious. The black hole spit me out, but I was still dizzy.
Because I forgot.
I forgot that I don’t have to punish myself. I forgot that many things can’t be explained or prevented. I forgot that sometimes little naïve children know the way of Love better than their wise and learned mother.
And sometimes it’s not the end of the world, after all.
Last weekend I had one of my favorite dates ever – with our 5 ½ year old son, Grant. After a quick trip to Burger King to devour his cheeseburger and strawberry-banana smoothie, we headed home to watch Planes Fire & Rescue. I brought three baskets of laundry out to the living room but when the he invited me to sit next to him, I decided not to multi-task the little guy.
He snuggled into my arm for a while until the heat from the fire got to him. Not long after that the intensity of the movie heightened and the date became epic.
Oh my! What’s going to happen?! This is kind of scary!
Grant gently put his arm around my back and began to pat my shoulder. In an upbeat voice he said, “It’s OK mom. It will be OK. I’ve seen it before and it will be OK.”
I melted into my son. He held my heart in his sweet hands and we connected deeply. At the tender age of five, the kid saw me in my distress and reached out to comfort me the same way I often comfort him. He knows instinctively what most of us push away by the time we are adults: tender touch and acknowledgement of distress is comforting, lessoning our experience of pain.
I’m not sure when it is that people begin to resist giving and receiving physical expressions of comfort. At some point it seems we get the message we need to be tough, not letting physical or emotional pain get to us. Shake it off. Deny it’s presence. Use distraction to keep from feeling it. Stay away and I won’t cry.
I suppose each of these strategies has its merits. The fact is that neuroscience is making interesting breakthroughs in understanding pain as a perception translated in the brain. Both physical and emotional pain are processed similarly and thus intimately tied. I hate to admit it, but the more I learn about it, the more I realize that pain is indeed all in my head.
But one fascinating aspect of physical and emotional distress is that their relief is also intimately tied. When I comfort Grant by kissing his wounds, he literally feels better! When I deny him my attention, his experience of physical pain is apparently worse. It is a lot easier to see this in a child. Young children still want to be comforted by a person.
The same is true of me. When I feel emotional or physical pain, my initial reaction is to physically or verbally throw my hand up.
Stay away! I don’t want you to touch me!
Why? Because I don’t want to cry in your presence. If you offer comfort and I am actually comforted by you, you hold my heart in your hands – and I’m not sure I can trust you with my heart, so I’ll just scare you or push you away.
Is it possible to be deeply connected to another person if we refuse their comfort?
Here are a couple of things I’ve learned from our kids and my own experience needing comfort:
The gruffest reaction comes from the most tender heart. See tears under the refusal of comfort and under the anger.
Ease your way in. When I am overwhelmed and throwing a grown-up tantrum, I need some perspective. But I won’t be ready to receive that perspective until you reach out. I often rub lotion on the back of a child throwing a tantrum. It is a physical reminder that we are not fundamentally and irreversibly screwed up in each other’s eyes.
It is easiest to receive comfort from someone who isn’t afraid of being comforted themselves. If you aren’t comforted in your own pain, you won’t be able to truly comfort someone else.
I hope Grant continues to use the movie move – to comfort others with the same kind of comfort he receives.
Like Andrea Joy Wenburg on Facebook for additional information about pain perception and sensitivity.
“What in the world is in my eyes?!” I was a mess after giving birth, but I was also working hard to hold it together. But when I walked out into the sunlight after a few days in the hospital, I noticed what looked like shadowy worms whenever I looked into light. I couldn’t quite focus on them, so they were hard to describe. They looked like little wormy life-forms under a microscope in a petri dish.
I became paranoid. Are there worms in my eyes? Parasites?!?!?!?! What in the WORLD?!
After a few days obsessing about the elusive foreign life forms in my eyes, I told my doctor about my concern. He said:
“They are floaters, probably knocked loose in delivery – nothing to worry about.”
Oh. OK. But what do I do to get rid of them?
“You can’t get rid of them. They might go away or they might stay.”
Oh.
Five and a half years have gone by and they’re still here. It’s weird looking at the world through floater-filled eyes. Sometimes I relax my eyes and look into the light and watch to see where they go. Sometimes up – sometimes down – sometimes around. I never can quite focus on them. Just like there are times I can’t see the forest for the trees, sometimes I can’t see real life for the floaters.
But sometimes I don’t notice the little guys. They float around, teasing me and begging for attention, but if I am focused on the life happening around me, I don’t see them.
Pain is a bit like that.
Pain is an indication that something is wrong. It alerts us to get out of danger: “Take your hand off the hot stove NOW!”
But pain can also trick us into thinking that we’re hurt worse than we actually are. Your body may hurt after a good workout, but that doesn’t mean you’re in danger. Your heart may hurt when your child is disappointed, but that doesn’t mean you need to do everything you can to make it better.
If you’re in pain, ask yourself this: How dangerous is this situation?
Do you need to spend time attending to the pain?
Or would you be better served by pulling your focus off of yourself and focusing it on the life happening around you?
Do you want to grow in your ability to communicate your thoughts more clearly and powerfully with others? Sign up to receive the free weekly Voice Lessons email. I’ll let you know about the blog post for the week and share a special word of encouragement and insight to help you find and refine your “voice” as you interact in your relationships, your community and the world. What you think matters, but not until you give your thoughts a voice.
Despite my self-declared distinction as a “writer,” I prefer the movie over the book every time. It might have something to do with the fact that I think in shapes and vague images and have a difficult time imagining elaborate descriptions, so I skip to dialogue. The “Abstract Thought” room as depicted in Inside Out is a perfect example of what happens in my head.
pull out of the experience (where it is quite dangerous since who KNOWS what might happen) and close off our emotional responsiveness. From this seat in the house, we do not have to feel vulnerable or sad because we can be angry that someone did something differently than we’d hoped. Maybe it was a friend. Maybe it was ourselves. Maybe it was God. But there must be someone to blame. Rather than being open, we are closed and cynical.
I got as far as the back gate when Belle barked at me from the other side of the fence – at her escape spot. I’m convinced she would have run away again if I didn’t have the kids’ snack pack. Miraculously, she suffered only a broken leg and a couple of flesh wounds. She asked me to carry her (yes, she asked) so I heaved her up and forward a few feet at a time until we made it to the house and eventually to her sweet veterinarian, my friend Amanda.
Pain is a bit like that.